


Asking for Absolution

by AetherSeer



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Crying, Established Relationship, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-22
Updated: 2017-12-22
Packaged: 2019-02-18 09:08:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13096908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AetherSeer/pseuds/AetherSeer
Summary: There’s no clear pattern to their arrangement. Sometimes Geno will go back to his own house and lick his wounds in private. Sometimes he’ll show up to practice the next day clearly hungover. And sometimes … sometimes he’ll come to Sid.





	Asking for Absolution

**Author's Note:**

  * For [coricomile](https://archiveofourown.org/users/coricomile/gifts).



> This was written for coricomile, as part of the Hockey Holidays Exchange. I hope you like it.

Geno’s always quiet after a bad loss. Not directly after—he tends to storm around the locker room and mutter angrily under his breath in Russian—but when everyone else has cleared out but the two of them. Sid never drives with Geno after a loss at home; he takes the time in the car to plan out the rest of the night, and Geno’s too much of a distraction.

There’s no clear pattern to their arrangement, either. Sometimes Geno will go back to his own house and lick his wounds in private. Sometimes he’ll show up to practice the next day clearly hungover but ready to put in the work. And sometimes … sometimes he’ll come to Sid.

 

The first time they’d done anything, it’d been a mess of fuckups and they’d nearly killed whatever chemistry they’d been building. The locker room had been tense, because they were both teenagers, and “stupid teenagers,” at that, according to Gonch. Although he’d said it in Russian, and Sid’s Russian _still_ hasn’t improved since 2006. So he could’ve said something worse, and Geno just refused to translate it. But the point stands.

They’ve gotten better at this. It’s taken years, but Sid’s developed a system that works. And it works well when Geno stops fighting his own internalized shame at needing Sid’s help and _just fucking asks for it._

Based on the hunch in Geno’s shoulders as they leave PPG, Sid thinks it’s going to be one of _those_ nights. So he peels off toward his car and leaves Geno to walk the short distance to his. If he’s right, Geno will pull up to Sid’s house as close to exactly five minutes after Sid as Pittsburgh traffic allows. Which gives Sid just enough time to lay everything out and meet Geno at the door.

Geno tops Sid by a good four inches, but he seems smaller in Sid’s doorway. And when he folds to his knees in the middle of the hallway, his forehead is the perfect height to press against Sid’s belly. Sid holds him there for a moment, carding his fingers through thinning hair. They’re both getting old, he thinks.

When Geno starts to rub his cheek against the soft fabric of Sid’s favorite sweatpants, Sid pulls him back, firmly but gently. “Upstairs. Strip and kneel. I’ll be there in five.”

Geno makes a face, but rocks back onto his heels and then stands. His hands flutter at his side, unsure. Sid tilts his head upward, and Geno leans down. The kiss is brief, but a comfort to them both, if the stilling of Geno’s hands is any indication. Then Sid sends Geno on his way with a guiding hand to the small of Geno’s back.

 

Sid takes his time gathering up the bottles of Gatorade and plate of snacks from the kitchen. Geno always needs a little time to wander around Sid’s bedroom and ground himself in the familiarity of what they’re doing. It helps him settle, and doing the little mindless (but important) preparation tasks helps Sid ease his own mind.

It’s a hard-won balance.

When Sid enters his bedroom, he sees the neat pile of dress clothes laying on the chair. Geno’s shirt and jacket are laid over the back. Geno himself is nude, kneeling with his feet tucked under him on the floor next to the bed. This time, at least, he’s on the pillow Sid had set out and not the hardwood floor itself. They’ve definitely had words about that in the past.

Sid sets the Gatorades and the snacks on the desk, and crosses over to take a seat on the bed facing Geno. He threads his fingers through Geno’s hair again, and pulls back just a little, until Geno’s looking directly at him. “You have to use your words right now, Geno,” Sid says. “Just now, and if you want me to stop.”

Geno tries to nod. Sid’s grip on his hair doesn’t let him. Geno licks his lips. “I want, Sid. Please.”

“Okay,” Sid says, and lets go of Geno’s hair. He smooths a hand over the darkening bruise on Geno’s shoulder, leftover from the game a few days ago. The bruises from tonight are just beginning to fill in with color; they’ll be vividly bright by morning.

Geno sucks in a breath when Sid presses the ball of his thumb into that bruise, putting his not-inconsiderable strength behind it. Sid counts to himself, and then eases off. Geno’s vibrating just a little, fingers twitching where they’re folded in his lap. Sid strokes over Geno’s skin, then finds that same place again and presses back in.

He holds longer this time, until Geno flinches away from the aching pain. His hands are still trembling, but his cock’s beginning to take an interest. Sid ignores that; if Geno manages to stay hard through the session, he’ll deal with it then. “Up,” Sid says.

Geno kneels up, back straightening. Sid takes a moment to admire the musculature of his back, the slope of his ass, the dimples to either side of his spine. Geno’s dedication to hockey shows in his body—despite the slight pooch to his belly that Geno whines about … endlessly. Sid runs a hand down the length of Geno’s back, lifting up before he meets the swell of Geno’s ass. That’s not what this is about.

Sid takes a step back and checks the light and angles. Geno keeps his back straight, hands clasped in front of him. Sid squeezes Geno’s shoulder twice, and Geno’s head dips forward.

The light suede flogger doesn’t do much more than pinken the skin of Geno’s back, but Sid doesn’t want to leave marks. Not there, when they have cameras always circling. But Geno’s breath hitches when Sid starts overlapping blows a little more on his ass, warming it up.

Geno shudders when Sid stops. He’s not quite there yet, though, and won’t be for a while. But the flogger, while nice as a warmup, isn’t what Geno wants or needs. Not on these nights. So Sid sets it aside.

 

Geno settling into place facedown over Sid’s lap is a familiar weight, and a sight Sid will never get tired of. His ass is a warm pink from the flogger, and quite clearly a hockey ass, thick with muscle. Sid runs an appreciative hand over the sensitive skin. He lays out two quick blows to the meat of Geno’s cheeks, gauging the pain levels and his own strength. When Geno just grunts and settles more firmly over Sid’s thighs, Sid gets to work.

He likes to start out in a pattern to get Geno into that headspace. So he cycles through the swats, alternating cheeks and making sure the hits are evenly spaced across Geno’s skin. Sid pauses for a moment when he hears the first choked noise. When he checks, rubbing gently over Geno’s smarting ass, Geno’s eyes are wet, but he’s not quite crying. Still a ways to go, then.

So he continues, alternating hard strikes and softer swats, making sure not to hit too hard. He doesn’t want Geno to bruise, but he does want this to be a reminder for the next few days whenever Geno sits. And once Geno stops moving, just lays there and takes the spanking, Sid switches it up.

Hard. Left. Upper cheek. Lower. Soft. A tap here, a hard swat there. The white imprint of his hand for a split second before it fades to match reddening skin.

That’s when Geno starts to cry, little hitching sobs that make his body shake beneath Sid’s hand. Sid doesn’t let up, although he does move his hand from where it was resting between Geno’s shoulder blades to instead cup the nape of his neck. He counts out another two minutes to himself, and then lets his hand come to rest on Geno’s ass, gently cupping one cheek.

Geno keeps crying, great heaving gasps for air. He turns his head when Sid touches two fingers to his chin, tears leaving trails down his face. Sid presses a kiss to his hair and helps Geno back onto his knees, keeping ahold of his biceps when Geno wobbles. “Easy,” he chides.

Geno’s in no mindset to chirp Sid for his gentleness, and Sid wouldn’t give up taking care of Geno when he’s like this for anything. Instead, he reaches for the soft cloth on the nightstand and starts wiping the tears and snot from Geno’s face, paying careful attention to Geno’s split lip from the game. It’s come open again, likely from Geno trying to muffle his noises, but there’s not much blood on the cloth when Sid deems Geno more presentable.

“C’mon. On the bed, now,” Sid says. He stands and bends to get a better grip under Geno’s arms as Geno gets to his feet. Geno sways, and nearly topples forward with a wince. Between Sid’s braced grip and Geno’s belated move to catch himself, they manage to get him on the bed without smacking his face against the mattress. Geno scoots a little bit forward, letting out a shaky sigh before he buries his face in a pillow.

Sid uncaps the bruise cream, spreading the soothing balm over his palms before gently smoothing it over Geno’s skin. Geno shivers and whines wordlessly, but doesn’t move otherwise. He just lays there and lets Sid work.

Sid caps the cream and sets it back on the nightstand before going around the bed and sliding in next to Geno. Geno reaches out and tugs Sid in closer with one long arm, making himself comfortable lying half on top of Sid. “Bad game,” Geno finally says.

“Yes,” Sid agrees. “It was.” He doesn’t say _I needed you on the ice, not in the box,_ or _you could’ve cost us the game,_ but he doesn’t need to. “We’ll do better next game. _All_ of us.”

“Yes,” Geno murmurs. “Next game.”

**Author's Note:**

> And sometime later Sid feeds Geno snacks and forces them both to hydrate before going to sleep.


End file.
